


bottom 40 ( perfectly white teeth )

by machetechampion



Series: songs to give up everything to [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending For Tom, Good Ending For Greg's Moral Compass, Good Ending For My Indie Band, M/M, Other, Pain, Pain and Anger and Pain, References The Unstoppable TomGreg Taylor Swift Cinematic Universe Briefly, Sad, Songfic? Oh Yeah Babey Basically, Tom Apologism But He Still Gets His Ass Handed To Him For Being A Shitty Boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machetechampion/pseuds/machetechampion
Summary: not that tom says anything to compliment his driving or says anything nice, ever. he doesn't know quite how to. it feels like a ball in his throat. it feels like he has gunk in his vocal chords and they cant process the sweet sing-song that would mirror greg complimenting his tie or saying he really likes spinach, too. none of that works.he insults greg's music instead. top-40 or adjacent.( season 2 spoilers finish the show before this one )
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: songs to give up everything to [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867087
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	bottom 40 ( perfectly white teeth )

greg drives a lot. 

greg hates drivers, is something tom has noticed. he avoids getting a car at all costs. hates calling them for others, too. he's a public transit, or his terrible, terrible excuse for a car, hands clutched tight around the wheel like something bad has happened. tom doesn't get it. his days of feeling safe in his own hands at the wheel are blurred, fuzzy with new memories, new lives that would rather chat in the back or focus on the news. 

so greg is driving. tom sits up front with greg, because he's in love with greg, and greg _is_ the safest driver he's seen. you sit up front with partners driving, you sit in back with drivers. 

( partners in business, of course. in employment. not yet. )

( not fucking yet, said tom’s psyche. )

not that tom says anything to compliment his driving or says anything nice, ever. he doesn't know quite how to. it feels like a ball in his throat. it feels like he has gunk in his vocal chords and they cant process the sweet sing-song that would mirror greg complimenting his tie or saying he really likes spinach, too. none of that works. 

he insults greg's music instead. top-40 or adjacent. he says hot chelle rae isn't a forgotten one hit wonder if the “one hit” is shitty, and 'downtown girl' has zero value in a spotify playlist. 

greg turns up the song - _she seals the deal / she shoots to kill / but i'm not going down_ \- with eyes locked on the crowded new york streets like it'd matter if he shot tom a glare. 

tom thinks he's going to faint if - _someday when you leave me / i bet these memories / follow you around_ \- crackles through a stereo that could easily be replaced. tom knows. tom has to process greg's checks. 

today, greg has a small but nice bluetooth speaker. tom knows greg buys music equipment with most of his money- he's still living in the kendall-space, tom heard talk from shiv from roman from kendall that greg is trying to figure some stuff out. tom thinks that's adorable. tom has too much poison in his throat to tell greg he wants to listen to his demos with his head in greg's lap, he wants to fall asleep to greg humming his own music with a bony thumb stroking his palm. 

he's distracted a moment wondering if greg has a song to play tom. one of his own songs, a love song to tom. 

greg does play music. tom comes to attention in the way he does, sitting up straight, not watching greg but watching the road with greg, not paying attention but quietly putting his work phone on do not disturb. 

his _work phone_.

the opening is raw and bony- it feels like it could be greg's hands plucking out individual notes, but it's sad. it doesn't feel good, it feels like a confession. the wrong one

and the voice is not greg, but it is not recognizable, and it is not top 40, it is not electronic or bouncy, none of it is what he expected and he needs to listen harder. something is wrong and he has not moved an inch because, well, he 'doesn't care,' remember?

_in a car / by the store i can never show my face in, again_

greg's voice should sound like a welcome ear. tom doesn't feel great. 

greg sounds like he practiced in the mirror. he didn't. 

"i've thought a lot, tom. about what i said. about your reaction."

_so you could drink up all the blood, and the sweat_

"it wasn't fair to me. you hit me with water bottles, dude. full ones! i had bruises!"

the poison in toms throat has activated and is blooming acid in the tissue. greg's driving is perfect. no change. he will not crash this car. 

_it's not the devil in the motives / it's the poison-bellied babies / petting me like a faithful dog_

_if not satan in tight-skin / cause for celebration temptation, incarnate / my god_

"i understand you want to keep me on, you see me as an asset, i get it. but this isn't marvel comics, tom, you can't torture me into liking you. you can't decide for me that i don't have morals - i do. and they feel pretty violated."

tom is wondering if he survives this acid fit and doesn't puke all over greg's car that actually runs really smoothly, for something so old, something that greg probably asks one of his lesbian friends to fix for him. a car greg haphazardly assists with and ends up messy and laughing with someone who voices how much he means to them. tom is hoping this isn't a poison capsule in his tooth that'll kill him instantly

tom hopes there's a young, happy wambsgans that can come out of this. 

_it could've been something i said / it should have been something i said_

greg pauses during the interlude. he pauses with intention- not to be dramatic, he's a little overwhelmed and the guitar helps. he's breaking up with his bossfriend ( a word he invented to remind himself that the sometimes gentle movements and dominance play and drunken neck kisses don't make up for verbal abuse. that the first man you wanted to hold in new york city isn't worth waystar ) and it's actually really scary. the ohio artist is raw, and it sticks out like a sore thumb in his spotify, but it's vent music. he's venting. 

_in a car, once again / breaking the land-speed record_

greg will never crash a car in his life and even as his voice shakes his driving is impeccable and tom feels physically safe as his heart leaves his throat and he wonders how he isn't sick. 

"i'm leaving."

no.

"i'm quitting all of waystar."

no.

_i am not the one you really want in your hands / i am golden and frozen solid_

"actually already filed it all, NDA outside the company. i left on good terms for grandpa ewan's health."

_i am frozen solid._

"i guess it's really for my health." hands twist on the wheel like they're sweaty, but won't leave a vice grip. 

"it's hard to cope with the environment. i wish we could be friends, but i think logan would have both our heads."

tom swallows for the first time in the three hour ( *two minute ) conversation they've had. 

_a chemical addicted / valid argument for distance_

"i want you to be safe too. i can't be safe with myself in that company. but if you think you are, that's for you to say."

_with claws cutting into my arm_

"sorry. i thought you seemed like you'd take care of me- i thought you said that. but this sucks. a lot. i don't feel cared for."

_it could've been something i said_

"well-"

_it should have been something i said_

"i guess that's in your right as an employee. and if logan okayed it- i… i… i wish you had told me sooner, or voiced your concerns-"

"i did."

the guitar hurts more. it sucks. it feels like his heart is being sawed through by guitar strings, that sound like they're razor sharp when the last notes hit and fade out. 

"i'm sorry you felt unsafe with ou- _the_ company. that would never be my desire. i find you-"

charming. sweet. darling. a warm hug after years alone. the husband he never felt he could have. the right decision that everyone said was stupid and wrong. 

"very helpful and fun to have around."

"you matter to me tom. take care of yourself. go home to your rich beautiful wife and your big dog and your millions of dollars. i want you to be happy with it."

he looks at tom for the first time when they're impeccably parked. tom looks greg in the eyes instead of the mouth or tie or back of his head from the empty office he likes to work in, even with his own. greg likes the glass walls, feels friendly. tom likes greg's demeanor.

"i want you to be happy, tom. i'm going back to canada. do what you have to, here."

and the poison is dissolving and it's too late.

greg gets out of the car when tom does, approaches him like he wants to cry and be an emotional 18 year old on college moving day and hug tom close for too long and have his parents take photos of two people going off to ( try and ) live the best lives ever. 

greg reaches out a hand. tom shakes it with both of his wrapped around it, tears far enough back that he'll cry inside with a glass of obscenely expensive whiskey chugged out of a collectible monsters, inc mug greg left at his place once. the one shiv scoffs at unless he hides it in the back. tom shakes greg's hand like the president just said tom was the best thing to happen to waystar. 

tom is going to be sick when tears are in greg's eyes. 

"have a safe drive, greg. do your best work up with the ol' maple-fuckers."

greg's stifled laugh isn't uncomfortable and tom softens too much, enough that he barely hears greg's "i always drive safe," the static in his ears too loud to hear himself say "i know" as he struggles to fit that too-big form tom /knows/ he lied about into the car. tom stumbles in, away, gone. 

tom is crying in the elevator. 

tom tastes salty tears and admittedly charming bad merchandising in his whiskey. 

tom can barely see his laptop while he searches for the band, the song. 

28 monthly listeners. 

_it could have been something i said_

greg is one of 28. 

_it should have been something i said_

29 monthly listeners. 

**Author's Note:**

> u can hmu on @ratmiddleman (twitter) for fic ideas!
> 
> [stream greg's (my) comfort underground ohio artist!](https://open.spotify.com/album/705pxSusvge8T3JgIxxZaG?si=6glx7_beSBKFfdQWakdyNA)


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